


Bright Light City

by ThisAintBC



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, M/M, The Softest Of Bros, no actual hockey depicted, teen for swearing because hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisAintBC/pseuds/ThisAintBC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Holster never goes to Samwell - instead he gets drafted into the Aces right out of Waterloo. Six foot four of D-man, everyone thought they knew what they were getting.</p>
<p>Up until he casually comes out as bi right after his first game.</p>
<p>This kid will be the death of Kent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Light City

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Freudianity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freudianity/gifts).



> I hope you like it, Freudianity! Happy Kent Parson Day! \o/

The kid walked into the locker room, and he was too tall and too young and too much. He smiled, and he winked, and he deliberately flexed when Kent was walking by, and oh God the fucking _glasses_. It really wasn’t Kent’s fault that he had him pressed up against the lockers before a month was out, one day after practice. He kissed like a dream, like he’d kissed boys before, and Kent—Kent couldn’t do it.

“I’m sorry,” he offered as he stepped back, somehow resisting the urge to keep running his hands through that hair, to keep running them over that back. “This isn’t really—“

“It’s all cool, man,” Birker replied—what a dumb nickname, _Birker_ , but he wouldn’t respond to _Berserker_ and that was the best anyone had come up with so far—but Kent could see the hurt in his eyes. He paused, tried to think of something to say, anything, but there was nothing, so he turned around and walked away and went to go see Jack.

(And what a disaster that was, but a _reassuring_ disaster, a disaster that told him he’d made the right choice for once in his life.) 

 

 

“— _by_ the way,” Birker laughed. Kent put on his best Humoring The Press smile and began wading through to try and do damage control. Jesus. Once was a mistake, twice was coincidence, but this was _six times_. The press weren’t exactly noted for their intelligence, but they were like sharks when it counted and this was definitely blood in the water.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” said the young reporter shyly, batting her eyelashes, and fuck, he was too late, “that you do that a lot—emphasize the word ‘by’. Is there any particular reason…?” she trailed off.

“Well,” said Birker, slowly, “it’s kind of a joke. You see, I’m bisexual, and—“ but by then the room was in an uproar, and Kent didn’t hear the rest of his speech until he saw it on CSPAN.

 

 

The email from his sister is really the last straw. He’s been avoiding Birker at practices, not sure how to deal with his enormous stupidity, his epic irresponsibility, the way his thighs flex—no. Idiotic kids are idiotic kids, but Kent has learned his lesson and he’s not ready to face this again.

The email says _there’s an article in Out magazine you should read_ and the link takes him to an article that is, of course, about Birker.

_“Well, it’s not like I was ever particularly trying to hide it,” Adam Birkholtz, affectionately known as “Birker” to his teammates, told us. “You know, it’s not really coming out of the closet if you were never really in.”_

_Birkholtz, 21, is on the fast track to being considered one of the best defenders—“D-men”—in the NHL, and took the time to give us a brief hockey lesson as part of the interview—“_

Kent shoved himself back in his chair, dropped his head against his keyboard, and stopped the noise in his throat—he wasn’t quite sure if it was a scream or a hysterical laugh, but either way, better to not get started.

It took him a few minutes to realize that the gentle tugging he was feeling was Kit, gleefully playing with his hair.

When he looked up, _kit10000_ had posted a string of nonsense letters, and there were already two replies, both of which said “OMG right?!” with varying amounts and kinds of punctuation. He gave up, and went to go watch AMC. 

 

 

After an _I Love Lucy_ marathon no one could’ve said no to and a couple of the Fast and Furious films, Kent had a plan. And felt like he could walk again, which, really, was probably the more important point. He called—not all of his teammates, but several of the more senior ones, the easygoing ones who would set the tone for the rest of the team.

He didn’t make it sound optional, and he also purposefully didn’t tell them where they were going. Jeff showed up in his minivan, a cooler full of Budweiser and Capri Sun riding shotgun, and they were off.

“So what’s the plan?” Jeff’s tone was really way too grim for a night out on the town in Vegas, so Kent flashed him a grin and said nothing. Jeff cut across two lanes of traffic in retaliation.

They ground to a halt in front of Stoner’s building, and Kent bailed out of the door before Jeff could think to engage the child safety locks. Technically he didn’t have a key to the building, but he’d found that helping little old ladies with their groceries can get you far in life. Within minutes, he was pounding on the door.

“What the hell, man,” Stoner complained, reluctantly allowing himself to be dragged down the hallway. “I had _plans_.”

“You still _have_ plans, Stoner. Now they’re just my plans, which makes them _better_.”

The noogie attempt was like a flash, but Kent was two steps ahead. He threw a faux salute at him and jogged backwards down the stairs.

They were still chirping each other by the time they reached the van.

“Where next, o fearless leader?” Jeff drawled, cutting across their nonsense.

“Donnie and then Birker, Ms Frizzle!” Kent proclaimed, almost giddy that it looked like the world hadn’t ended after all. Stoner snickered in the back.

Luckily, Donnie and Birker lived just a few buildings apart, so Kent dragged Donnie out of the door while Jeff and Stoner went to go get Birker.

The look Adam gave him when they met up made his heart pound—half hope, half suspicion. God, he hoped he was doing the right thing here.

The chirps were flying thick and furious as they barreled down toward the strip, and at the next-to-last minute Kent remembered to tell Jeff to turn. They almost sideswiped a mini coop as they whipped into the parking lot, and everyone gave Jeff hell for his driving and Kent hell for his navigating.

“Come on, it’s this way.” Kent told them, and the chirps slowly trickled off as they walked through the chilled desert air. Soon enough, their destination was in sight. Kent looked around at all of the guys, suddenly nervous, and noticed that Donnie was looking a little uncomfortable—but he was still walking, which was what mattered. They were almost at the door before he decided that maybe, maybe, now they could have some clarification.

“Look—look, kid, being the first one to come out isn’t very smart,” he said, and they definitely thought he was drunk by this point, but the way his heart was racing, the way his speech was slipping slightly back into that lisp—no, that wasn’t alcohol. “But—we’re hockey players. No one ever _asked_ us to be smart.”

And Birker looked at him, and looked at the club, grabbed his hand and dragged him in and ordered him a shot. Which, really, Kent would’ve made it in on his own. Eventually. As a show of support.

At least the other guys had followed.

 

 

The next day, it was—well, it wasn’t all over the papers, but there were some very tasteful shots of them partying in what was clearly a gay club cropping up online. And there were interviews, and jokes from other teams, and suddenly Stoner started to get a reputation for fighting. But they were winning, which was what management cared about, and everyone went and got a drink together afterward, which was what Kent cared about. Adam smiled and his dimples flashed and his laughter was all over the locker room, and no one _cared_ , no one on the team gave a good goddamn one way or the other, and it was like watching a miracle unfold.

(They win the Cup that year, and as Kent raises it over his head he feels like his chest is about to break with pride as he bares his bloody teeth in what’s probably a pretty grotesque smile. He sees Bad Bob in the crowd and barely registers the nod, barely manages to return it, wonders if happiness has always been this _easy_. Adam’s playoff beard is glorious, and he thinks maybe the joking “Grizzly” earlier will be the nickname that finally sticks.)

“What do you think, Parser?” He said sleepily one night from the middle of a puppy pile in someone’s hotel room, gesturing toward the draft taking place on the screen. Their newest pick was young, maybe a few years younger than Birker, another D-man to help round out their offense-centric team.

“I think,” Kent gulped, screwed up his courage, and determinedly looked at the screen, at his hands, anywhere but at Adam. “I think you should—we should—do you want to get coffee tomorrow?”

Adam’s tone was confused. “You mean, go grab a box for everyone? Yeah, sure, I guess.”

Kent made a noise in the back of his throat, and that was apparently too much for Donnie.

“Jesus, captain, just ask the kid out already.”

And when he looked up, Adam was beaming. Slowly, he stretched out his hand, and Kent—Kent took it.


End file.
